Da Capo
by EspoirDio
Summary: The sequel to Coda. Six months have passed since Erik released her, and now Julianne Doucet returns to Paris to discover how drastically everything has changed in her absence. With the wheels already set in motion, how will her feelings towards the Opera Ghost affect events to come?
1. Madame Doucet's Return

**A/N: For LeticiaMaree who has always loyally supported Coda. It's roughly been a year since I started work on it, I reckon it's time for the resolution. Let me know your thoughts!**

Da Capo

Prologue:

The city of Paris loomed before her in the dark, illuminated, it seemed, by hundreds of warm-glowing lights. Each of them told a separate story, of peaceful home life, scandalous affairs or the struggle to stay afloat. Yet to Julianne Doucet they represented a welcome change.

Having spent the past six months in her native England, she was grateful to escape the fog and rain that had punctuated her every day. Though the deeper her carriage drew into the capital, the tenser she became. It was as if the dark veil had descended upon her, after all, casting everything in gloomy hues.

Six long months ago she had fled France in a hurry, too overwhelmed by grief and fear. She could never have imagined that she would find herself at the centre of so great a conflict. Granted, she had been viewed as unusual at times, but who could have known that she, a plain diplomat's widow, would be in charge of an opera house run in the shadows by a disfigured genius? Nervously, her fingers bunched together the black silk of her travel dress which served to deepen the pre-existing creases designed to give the skirt a more shapely appearance.

Those haunting amber eyes seemed to follow her everywhere.

Resting her head against the wall of the carriage, she closed her own and allowed a deep sigh to escape her parted lips. The carriage jostled faintly, lulling her into a false sense of security.

Regrets made up the heaviest part of the baggage she carried with her. Julianne knew that her decision to escape the country had been as desperate as it had been reckless. In one careless act she had broken the arrangement Erik had imposed upon her and undoubtedly not only condemned the _Palais Garnier_ to a grim fate but also endangered its employees.

But she was only human, after all, and had sought refuge in the safe predictability of her childhood environment. Her father had been rather insistent that she ought to return, anyhow. Paris, he thought, was not an appropriate place for an unmarried woman.

For the first few months it had been surprisingly easy to forget about the Opera Ghost and his demands, to forget about Édouard even and to lose herself in the flurry of activity designed to amuse her. Gradually, however, hints of grey started to slip into those sombre hues of her mourning attire and her father began his talk of the future. She could not remain on her own, of course, and neither was it appropriate for someone of so mature an age to reside with her parents.

Rather conveniently, young, handsome men chose that exact period to pay visits to the family home and by some mysterious twist of fate, Julianne found herself in the role of hostess more often than not. Her indignation and anger had soon given way to shame when she discovered that her outrage could not simply be attributed to the memory of her late husband but was in part due to her recent experiences with Erik.

That was when her thoughts had inevitably toppled over one another, bringing her back to that hopeless shell of a house beneath the _Palais Garnier_ , forcing her to recall the threats, the murder, the pain and anguish and…tentative blooming of something quite beyond words. That was when she realised she needed to return, not only out of guilt, but because she, herself, needed to know what had brought about that sudden rupture that had ended with Erik's spindly fingers wrapped around her neck and angry words of instruction hissed into her ear.

But how fragile determination could be!

In England with the (although oftentimes unwanted) support of her family she had been filled with a sense of purpose. But now that she had returned to Paris, she was becoming rapidly aware of the size of the task she had set herself. She was only a woman, after all, restrained by the customs of mourning for another six months at least. Whoever she would turn to for help would only suggest that she handed over the running of the opera to a man who would likely be more capable. And unless she wanted to endanger Erik, there really was no-one she could consult.

Except perhaps the Persian?

The mysterious stranger called Nadir who had fled her house in such panic the night she had decided to return to England. Perhaps he could become a friend.

The Parisian streetlamps were projecting an intriguing show of shadow and light onto her face now, while she slowly unfurled her fingers. Around her, on one of the larger boulevards of the city, the air was ripe with sound. Summer, it seemed, had swept the country and was tempting young and old to lounge in the many inviting Cafès.

Well-dressed gentlemen in tailored suits were walking arm in arm with elegantly clad women, all parties visibly relishing the warm breeze that also filtered into the carriage from time to time. Paris had a particular flair to it that was entirely lacking in the English cities, though Julianne was under no illusion that the debauchery was any different.

At last, the dark, glistening body of the Seine came into view and with it the familiar outlines of her _arrondissement_. Her stomach constricted nervously as she hoped, prayed to find her staff alive and well. Erik's latest threat had been directed at her maid and housekeeper, after all, and it was impossible to predict whether he had been incensed enough by her departure to realise it. Not even the sight of the _Jardin du Luxembourg_ – the park that lay on the doorstep of her house, and through which she had taken imaginary strolls on those gloomy days in England - could do anything to lift her spirits.

But then Alexandre's tall figure appeared, pushing open the gates that led into the courtyard and his relieved face prompted a smile to spring to her own. There was a sense of familiarity in this Parisian life after all, and it warmed her heart.

With expert movements of his strong, muscular arms he guided the carriage inside and then opened the door to help her alight.

"Madame Doucet!" He was positively beaming now.

"Alexandre," she bowed her head in return, "what a pleasure it is to see you again. How well you look!"

She placed one hand upon his cheek in a motherly fashion and felt him glow beneath her touch.

"We have all been anticipating your return, Madame. It has been very quiet."Then, as if noticing how bluntly he'd spoken, he cast his eyes downwards and straightened his posture. "But now you are back and there's work to be done. I shall tend to your luggage first, Madame, then give the driver his pay and put him up for the night."

She nodded in agreement and released him, proceeding into the house on her own. The black, heavy curtains had been taken down, the gas light turned brighter and the mirror in the hallway was free, once more, to show her her own reflection. The face she found there was round but fuller than it might have been a year ago, the deep blue eyes no longer hidden behind a veil were sharp and focused and the dark hair once long enough to be pinned up into a bun was cut fashionably short.

"Madame Doucet, what a pleasure it is to have you home!"

Julianne turned to face the portly figure of her housekeeper and maid Babette and once more breathed a sigh of relief. She, too, looked as ordinary as she had done upon her departure.

"And how nice it is to see you again," Julianne answered genuinely, taking Babette by the hand. "You must tell me everything that I have missed, but now I'm dreadfully tired from the journey and cannot wait to rest."

"Of course, Madame, of course," acquiesced the maid and proceeded to usher her to the topmost floor where the bedroom was located.

Here, too, the heavy curtains had been removed, and the steadily glowing lights in the distance made the space feel less suffocating. Finally, there was more to life than mourning alone. There was an entire city on her doorstep, not just the seclusion of her chamber.

Dutifully, Babette moved to the bed and laid out the nightgown that would have been laundered and aired out on that very day.

"Your family must have been pleased to have you with them, Madame," she remarked conversationally, while Julianne crossed the room to explore what else had been altered in her absence.

"Quite pleased, I would think."

She came to a halt in front of her writing desk on whose surface a small stack of letters had been accumulating. Instantly nervous, she longed to ask questions but held her tongue for the sake of her maid and instead pushed her fingers into the cool fabric of her dress once more.

At length, Babette finished what she had set out to do and after inquiring if there was anything more to be taken care of, she vacated the room and left Julianne to her own devices.

Breathing steadily through her mouth to calm herself, she lifted up the first letter and examined it. Bearing the city's seal it was unlikely to contain any nasty surprises. Three more of its kind followed. Then there were those black envelopes that held kind condolence wishes which seemingly refused to cease even till this day.

But it was between postcards and formal invitations that a simple little envelope lay nestled. Devoid of the spidery handwriting she'd come to associate with the Opera Ghost, an inexplicable sense of foreboding befell her nonetheless.

It was a small note, really, containing little more than a few lines and yet…and yet those lines hinted at so much more.

 _Madame Doucet,_

 _It is with deepest regret that I must inform you that the Palais Garnier has been closed in your absence. I trust that you will share our disappointment, but without a steady hand to steer the business, it has been impossible to uphold the necessary funding. I hope you will come to understand that this decision has been made with great regard for your reputation._

 _With warm wishes,  
Roger Moreau _


	2. The Fate of the Palais Garnier

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows. Updates will probably take me around 2 weeks or so. The piece Erik plays is "Winter" by Vivaldi.**

Chapter 1:

When Julianne awoke from fitful slumber the following morning, she felt as though she had been drugged. Her head was filled with fog, her neck was stiff and her lids too heavy to keep open.

After reading the letter several times over, she had scoured the room for old newspapers, for anything that would consolidate the information so casually extended to her. Unfortunately, Babette had done an impeccable job of maintaining a tidy space and so Julianne was forced to sit with her feelings of disbelief and anger without gaining any certainty.

Businesses closed when unable to stay afloat, but this wasn't just any business. It was impossible to fathom the notion that an opera house as grand as the _Palais Garnier_ would simply shut down without generating a mass outcry. But there was nothing to it, if she wanted to know she would have to visit herself.

Disentangling herself from the sheets in a less than graceful manner, she rang the bell to inform the maid that she required assistance. Hot water arrived within minutes and washed and dressed she consented to a small breakfast before insisting that Alexandre ready the horses. At long last, she descended the stairs, the note stuffed into her handbag of dark lace and embarked on the short journey towards the opera house.

Whatever fatigue she had felt upon awakening was chased away by the rapid beating of her heart that echoed the clapping of the horses' hooves on pavement. It was a rush - that she could not deny - to be surging towards that dangerous place again. As conflicting as her feelings were, the physical sensations evoked were dreadfully inappropriate yet true.

The _Avenue del'Opera_ was as busy as it had always been, filled with omnibuses transporting people from the south bank of the Seine to the north and vice versa. Cafés beckoned even now and the air was rich with the scent of flowers, thanks to the many vendors that had set up to sell their goods. Nothing was out of place and yet she had learned that the _Palais Garnier_ was unique, existing almost in a universe of its very own where time moved at a different speed and ordinary rules weren't powerful enough to govern anything.

Her hands felt clammy when she disembarked and she wiped them unceremoniously on the black fabric of her long skirt.

"I will be waiting here for you, Madame," Alexandre remarked by means of farewell and she extended a grateful smile to him. He was a good boy and loyal servant.

With confident steps designed to disguise the flutter of nervousness she continued to feel, she approached the imposing building and pushed against the door that would lead directly to the office. But the wood did not relent to her touch and so she retrieved a large set of keys from her purse and inserted one after the other until she found the one that made the lock spring open with a satisfying click.

Darkness greeted her and with no means to light any of the gas lamps, she let the door fall shut behind her, praying that her eyes would adjust easier. The silence that followed was numbing, as if the building had somehow indeed swallowed up any sounds from the outside world.

In a burst of panic her pulse thrummed frantically in her neck. Memories of skeletal fingers, menacing eyes and the scuttle of little feet invaded her mind until she reminded herself of the beauty she had found underneath the rubble of pain.

He was only a man. He was only a man.

Tentatively, her feet found their own rhythm again and she proceeded cautiously deeper into the building. Her hand that slid along the length of the wall informed her when she had reached the office and to her surprise it opened up before her instantly. Moreau had either left in a hurry or Erik had given very specific instructions. Neither option was particularly reassuring.

She moved on towards the large oak desk, bumping into furniture along the way. The drawers were unlocked but their contents practically invisible in the suffocating darkness. So she re-traced her steps towards the windows, feeling about until she managed to push aside the heavy curtains. Light streamed in harshly and stirred up particles of dust which danced before her aching eyes. For a moment or two everything was cast in pastel grey hues.

It had been some time then since someone had come to clean this grand building.

Upon closer inspection the drawers contained practically nothing which was to say that they were primarily filled with meaningless content. Old receipts, unused stationary and thank you notes. The presence of her late husband and that of the Opera Ghost wiped out completely. No scandal appeared to have rocked these walls. It was as if the _Palais Garnier_ had never really opened its doors.

With a heavy sigh, Julianne sank down on the chair that was so wide it reduced her to a mere sliver of a woman and gravely looked around the room. It was almost too easy to believe that the abduction had been dreamed up by a grieving, lost mind.

Oh, but those treacherous footprints in the dust!

A fresh surge of energy propelled her upright and towards one of the walls from which the ghostly prints emerged and led to the door. She knew the corridor that lay behind this particular panel of wood, but she would not dare go there herself. The maze was too large and the traps plentiful.

No, she would take a leaf out of the phantom's book and contact him by letter. It no longer seemed silly, now that she had proof that he still abandoned his home to wander about the opera. She would leave the curtains open also to draw his attention.

Then, with paper and pen found in the drawers, she wrote the note, hoping that it would prompt him to contact her swiftly.

* * *

Every day for a week she returned to the opera house but despite the mocking evidence of fresh footprints, Erik refused to acknowledge her. But Julianne did not remain passive. She contacted Moreau for answers of which she received none other than those outlined in the letter. He refused to cooperate but at last relented to supplying her with the addresses of former staff, chorus, orchestra and ballet members.

But although Julianne set out to work with great enthusiasm, the constant rejection and denial of knowledge soon made her disillusioned and demotivated. What else was she to do when doors were thrown shut in her face at every turn?

After two weeks of fruitless searching, she returned to the _Palais Garnier_ like a pilgrim to a holy shrine. She had no plan and little hope left other than to encounter Erik by chance, and so she sat in the office as the minutes ticked by, staring gloomily at the untouched note in front of her on the desk.

She thought about Babette and the others in her employ whom she had treated with absent-minded indifference, fearing for their future if the opera house remained empty and she unmarried. Six months ago in the heart of the conflict and the depth of her grief, she had not taken into consideration the financial repercussions a fallout might have. Now the dangers loomed ominously ahead. If forced to choose between a hasty marriage and the dismissal of her staff, she did not believe there was an outcome she could possibly live with.

Suddenly, the faint tune of a violin reached her ears and coaxed her out of the twilit office and into the pitch-black corridor. She knew it was him by the haunting quality of the music and the emotions that latched onto her so intimately they might as well have been drawn from directly within.

Somewhere she knew that he was trying to tempt her forward, that he needed to force exposure on her first, yet she was just as unable to resist as she had been that night at his house.

The closer she drew, the angrier the tune became and Julianne realised distractedly that this was not a piece of his own making. It sounded vaguely familiar in a way that pierced her heart just like any other music to which the memory of her late husband clung.

Bumbling along in the dark without a semblance of coordination she eventually emerged at the bottom of the fly tower from which his elegantly moving figure became instantly visible, looking just as imposing as he would have wanted it to against the backdrop of the empty auditorium and the softly glowing footlights.

Julianne paused halfway through the vast structure only capable of staring at him. It had been six months, six long months of amber eyes in the dark, of revisiting conversations shared and threats made.

He was as thin and as tall as when she had last seen him, clad entirely in black except for the white shirt and mask. His long, slender fingers were moving expertly along the neck of the violin, his body swaying back and forth while his surprisingly strong right arm was whipping the bow across the strings with all the anger that so easily ignited within him.

What has happened, she wanted to ask, why are we back here once more?

Then his eyes snapped open, amber met blue and the music vanished. The silence only served to make their reunion more uncomfortable and while his name echoed through her mind, her own unfurled from his lips with damnable ease.

"Madame Doucet."

How he managed to fill those two words with such cool contempt baffled her, but the effect was instantaneous as she found herself standing straighter under his icy scrutiny.

"I thought we had agreed that it was Julianne, Erik," she answered at last, desperate to inject as much kindness into her tone as she could.

If only they could get rid of the opera ghost charade and just speak as human beings.

"Oh, you must forgive me, my dear," he said swiftly, indicating a mock bow, "perhaps I have, indeed, been too hasty in dismissing your word. You have been so truthful in the past."

Frustrated with the audacity of his remark, her own anger roared impatiently in the pit of her stomach and it required an almighty effort to rein it in.

"I have disappointed you," she acknowledged instead, taking a nervous step closer to his towering figure, "but you have disappointed me also. I thought we had reached an understanding and then you hurt me and you threatened me."

Granted, the speech had been well-rehearsed but it was thanks to it that she managed to look him square in the eye.

"I was frightened and confused and so I left."

Something in the depth of those peculiar eyes softened, but then he gripped the neck of his violin tighter and stalked off along the very edge of the stage.

"And you expected to find me ruefully grovelling before you upon your return, Madame? What a great shock this must have been to you!"

Julianne remained perfectly still, staring down at her blouse through whose slight fabric the royal purple of her chemise shimmered.

"I am not quite so naïve anymore. But I was expecting the _Palais Garnier_ to be intact."

"I have not touched it," he laughed and the sharp staccato of his polished black boots seemed to reverberate directly in her skull.

"But you have silenced it for good and I won't allow that."

His laughter intensified, becoming more dangerous and terrifying. With feline grace, he walked the length of the stage once more until he came to stand so closely in front of her that her crossed arms were resting against his stomach.

"But you left, Madame," he said, nothing more than a soft exhalation that whispered across her face, "and now everyone is gone. You're on your own, my dear; what you allow or disallow hardly matters."

For a brief moment, the truth of his words shook her to the core but then an alternative sprang to her mind, so glorious and reckless she broke into a smile.

"But I'm not alone, Erik, I have you."

Stunned, he stared at her and despite the mask it wasn't difficult to see that he thought her raving mad.

"You wanted to be consulted, did you not, to minimise your suffering? I haven't forgotten your attempts to explain. I will be in charge of management and finances, and you will have a say in the musical and creative choices of each production."

How exactly she wanted to realise this plan, she'd rather not consider yet.

Like a restless child he rocked back and forth on his heels while his eyes offered a glimpse of the struggle that seemed to rage inside.

"No," he decided at last, the tension in his muscles evident through his clothes.

"There's no need to be stubborn!"

The angry blaze returned at once and in one swift move his hand released the bow and wrapped itself around her neck instead. Fear rippled through her and turned her numb while her mind chided her for the careless approach she had taken.

Had she really been so desperate to see him again that she had turned a blind eye to his cruelty?

"I am declining your generous offer, Madame Doucet," he now hissed, "because I do not trust you. You are a deceptive siren trying to lure me with your sweet words."

"I don't understand," she croaked, heat singeing every inch of her face.

"Of course you don't," he remarked in a saccharine voice while his fingers relinquished their pressure, "memory can be selective, after all, can it not?"

She did not dare move, did not dare look away from those eyes that were burning her alive.

"The letter, Madame Doucet. Do you remember now? The one you had so carefully hidden in your dress?"

Realisation struck so violently that she began to shake. Overwhelmed with cold nausea, she could only bring herself to nod.

Was this what had caused the rupture? One silly oversight, one act committed when they had been nothing more but adversaries?

Still, his betrayal felt so real that she couldn't help but feel ashamed.

"Erik, I…I apologise," she tried feebly, her voice hoarse from the fresh attack. "You were scaring people, killing people. I was trying to understand and I thought that Christine Daaé would have answers."

"Silence!" he bellowed, a sound that shattered something inside her. "You are not worthy to speak her name!"

His chest was heaving with the anguish contained within. Then he turned away clutching his heart.

"You have your answers now, Madame Doucet, and so do I."

The tired resignation was more terrible than his fury.

With great effort he stooped down to retrieve his bow and then slunk away towards the wings.

"Think about it!" she called after him despite herself, but darkness swallowed him up without another sound. "Has anyone else offered you a partnership before?"


	3. A New Beginning

**A/N: Next update might be slightly delayed, unless I get it done before I go away on vacation.**

Chapter 2:

The bold confidence that had filled her with purpose that evening dissipated remarkably quickly and left behind nothing but question marks and anxiety for the future. The proposal she had put to Erik had seemed perfectly logical in the moment; quite possibly the solution to all her problems. But in the cold light of day, it was proving itself to be a near impossible endeavour.

Still, fear's greatest opponent was action and so she set out early the following morning to write the letters to the only two people who could possibly offer her financial aid.

The first was her father, though she was not ashamed to admit that she wrote to him with some trepidation. After all, he was unlikely to willingly part with his money, especially when it was for a cause he did not understand. She nonetheless addressed him with all the charm she had been taught in her upbringing, pleading with sweet words that they may come to an agreement.

The second letter was much shorter and addressed to Jules Ferry whom Édouard had supported without fail and whom she hoped would be happy to do the same for her.

When both correspondences had been collected for delivery, she summoned Babette into the room that had once been her husband's study and bade her to sit. How strange it was to be the one at the business end of the desk, surrounded by a small collection of receipts and other papers she did not entirely understand. It felt oddly thrilling, and yet she wished that Édouard could still be with her, so that she may coax him away from his work with kisses and whispered promises.

Carefully, Julianne unfurled her fingers which had been clutching the edge of the desk until then and forced herself to look into the warm, familiar eyes of her maid.

"I don't want you to worry, Babette," she said when she noticed the strain that seemed to make her smile twitch uncertainly on her face. "You are not in trouble and neither do I have any upsetting announcements to make. As a matter of fact, I have come to ask for your favour."

"My favour, Madame?" the perplexed woman repeated, the nervousness bringing forth a chuckle that propriety would have otherwise prohibited. "Surely you must know by now that I am pleased to help you with anything I can."

"Still, Babette," Julianne answered gently, "it would be rude of me to assume." She really wasn't the detached mistress she was meant to be. "I know that people of your standing are likely to know one another." The maid nodded and if the label had upset her she did not show it. "And so perhaps you'd be able to recommend a dozen or so women to me who do not shy away from hard labour and are known to have excellent skill in cleaning vast spaces."

The quizzical arch of the eyebrows told her that perhaps she ought to deliver more context if she was to generate interest.

"As you know, since Monsieur Doucet's death I have taken it upon myself to see to the running of the _Palais Garnier_. Undoubtedly, you will have also heard rumours about a closure of the opera house and I can assure you that these truly are just rumours. However, in order to maintain a successful business changes will have to be made, and to that end I'd be grateful for any assistance you are able to offer. The cleaners would be paid little more than what they already are accustomed to but would be provided with stable work for the rest of their lives."

She paused then to let Babette digest everything she had just told her but also reflected how little she knew about this business she had decided to run.

How much were cleaners paid generally? And had the _Garnier_ offered them more? How many workers would it take to ensure a smooth running?

Her stomach turned at the thought of all the research she would have to do and all the hurdles she was likely to face. Perhaps, it would be wise to consult Moreau one last time to salvage the situation to the best of her abilities.

"Of course, Madame. I will ask around for you and report back as soon as I have heard something."

And although Julianne believed her to be truthful, she could also tell by the frown on her maid's face that she didn't entirely support this endeavour.

"Please be certain to emphasise that I am only interested in hard workers, who aren't easily distracted and most definitely not swayed by rumours or gossip."

"Of course, Madame."

Her nod marked the end of the conversation and as Babette dutifully rose to her feet, curtsied and left the room, Julianne remained behind, pondering where on earth she ought to start.

* * *

A few days later, however, she already found herself entirely embedded in the process. Much to Babette's dismay, the study had become a sea of books and old newspapers in whose midst Julianne could be found. The elderly woman would flitter in occasionally to part the curtains and open the windows, muttering to herself about the benefits of sunlight and fresh air and then leave again when she found her mistress to be entirely unresponsive.

At first, Julianne did not pay her much heed because she had become too engrossed in it all. But later there was an element of homecoming to it. She, who had always blossomed in the company of books, now found comfort in the smell of old pamphlets alone that warmed the room on any given day. And if it wasn't the history of the _Palais Garnier_ that kept her there, it was the presence of her late husband that wrapped itself around her like a blanket, familiar and re-assuring. This was his study and she was beginning to understand the appeal of hours spent locked away in it.

It was in that very room, sitting on a cushion in a cross-legged position, that Jules Ferry found her a week later. He was ushered in by a distraught looking Babette who was fussing over him in an attempt to compensate for the lack of refreshments in the house. She was visibly put out by the suddenness of his arrival and Julianne had trouble hiding the smile that threatened to spill over into a chuckle at the endearing nature of her , herself, was of course also ill prepared for his visit and consequently hurried to straighten her dress and hair.

Jules Ferry was older than her husband had been, with a generous beard that seemed to make up for the scarcity of hair found upon his head. He was of portly stature but moved with a purpose and ease that was rather unexpected. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, but kind and in a single glance he managed to convey what his words of comfort had done in all the letters he had sent after Édouard's passing. He was deeply sorry for her loss, perhaps even grieving still himself.

With a bow of the head to conceal her own tears, Julianne accepted his outstretched hands and forced back a sob when the warmth of his palms engulfed her knuckles.

"I apologise for any inconvenience my visit might be causing you, but I am presently so occupied that I must seize any opportunity for freedom or otherwise fear to be bound to my work permanently."

She nodded in understanding and with a blush of embarrassment guided him across the littered floor towards the desk. She hadn't expected to be entertaining, or she would have welcomed him in the sitting room instead.

Perhaps it was a tribute to his kind nature or the close ties to her late husband, that he did not once remark upon the state of the room but instead engaged her in brief anecdotes about his current predicament. He was hoping to reclaim his seat in the republican ministry, the first of its kind, formed as recently as 1879, and consequently found himself swamped with the tasks that usually accompanied such an endeavour.

He had done much for the educational sector of the country, that much she knew, but beyond that her knowledge was minimal at best. She had listened to Édouard's passionate talks on the matter but understood little more than the positive consequences his ideas could have. Politics had never particularly appealed to her and it was only after her husband's death that she had begun to wish she would have been more interested so that they might have shared more time together.

"But enough about me, Madame Doucet. I have received your letter and will, of course, be happy to assist you in your endeavour. Édouard was always a fierce patron of the arts and I know how proud he was to be considered as a manager for the _Palais Garnier."_

"Yes, I daresay it was a boyhood dream come true," she remarked lightly, pondering in secret, however, if this naiveté of his had been the reason he'd been saddled with a business that was frequently manipulated by a man who adopted the guise of a ghost.

"I realise that this is when I ought to produce a detailed proposal of the finances I am expecting to receive and the sum I will pay you back eventually, but the truth is that I have been unable to compile all the figures yet. So perhaps you could propose to me the extent of the aid you'd be able to offer?"

Graciously, he did not press her on what had essentially been an admission of her own ignorance and laid out in earnest and with seriousness what funds he had at his disposal, and she thanked him just as generously before their conversation drifted off towards more mundane matters.

* * *

It was another two weeks before Julianne felt confident enough to enter the _Palais Garnier_ again. In the meantime, she had drawn up a chart of costs and wages and recruited a skeleton crew of previous employees. Moreau had washed his hands of the affair and others had chosen to follow his example, yet to her relief she had encountered those eager to return for the sake of money or their own dedication to the opera house.

Whatever the reason, she felt indebted to them. With such limited experience it was crucial to be able to rely on people familiar with their tasks. She would be met with enough difficulties sooner or later of that she was certain.

As a matter of fact, a complication had already emerged this morning, arriving by letter and disguised in a beautiful white envelope with golden lettering. But for now she passed through the opulent doors of the _Palais Garnier_ , a throng of sixteen cleaners on her heels, determined to forget all about it.

Some of the younger women were whispering excitedly as their footsteps echoed through the marbled halls while the older ones remained respectfully quiet, a look of grim determination on their faces. Once assembled on the grand staircase, she gestured for one woman to take a stance by her side.

"I thank you all for your prompt arrival this morning and for the hard work and effort I know you will invest in this building. A well-kept opera house is just as vital in drawing in the crowds as a talented singer. And since there is no time to waste, I will leave you in Renée's charge. She's been previously employed by the management and knows the chores like no other. I beg you to follow her instructions to the letter and remain focused. I am a kind woman with an ear for personal difficulties, but if I notice someone's lazy attitude or get wind of any petty feuds, I will not hesitate to release you from your contract."

An ominous hush descended upon even the last stragglers who had proceeded to chat amongst themselves, and satisfied with the effect of her speech, Julianne offered Renée a smile before ascending the western staircase that led into the salon de la lune.

From there it was only a short walk towards the small library that had been instated in her absence. There were no windows in this part of the grand building and the stale smell of neglect hung heavily in the air. At least the gas lamps had been lit in preparation for the impending deep cleaning and so she could read the titles of the tomes that had been selected to line the shelves.

What a shame to see these beautiful volumes abandoned, she thought, wiping a layer of dust away. Perhaps she could lavish some attention on them before they were exposed to the rough, calloused hands of the cleaners.

"Who are all these harpies that you have chosen to unleash upon my opera?"

She should have known that he'd be watching, but if he'd hoped to frighten her, he would be disappointed to find her chuckling.

"You are an intelligent man. I am certain you can discover the answer yourself."

Swiping away yet more dust, she turned just in time to see him scowling at her from the balcony that constituted the narrow upper floor of the library.

"I had not granted permission, Madame Doucet," he pressed angrily, his eyes never leaving her as she climbed the fragile staircase to the top.

"But neither did you sent threatening letters or pay me one of those uninvited visits you are so fond of. In fact, I have heard nothing from you in a month, and since you are usually so quick to make your displeasure known, I came to the conclusion that you had accepted my offer."

He was inches away from her, tall and proud still despite his hunched over shoulders and the laboured breathing she now perceived. Or perhaps he had simply been too exhausted to fight her. She liked to think it wasn't that.

"And why, Madame Doucet, would I agree to work with you? She who has betrayed me countless times?"

A dangerous whisper that made her shiver.

"Maybe a part of you knows that I did what I had to to stay alive. Maybe you're familiar with that feeling yourself. Erik, please listen, I don't claim to have purely altruistic motives. I need to do this to survive beyond Édouard's money, to pay my staff who have been kind, dependable and loyal. I need to do this to prove to myself that I _can_ , that I am not useless without a husband…" She paused with a heavy sigh. "That there is purpose to my life yet. But I don't deny either that it could be a chance for you to follow the path of redemption Christine Daaé extended to you."

She held her breath when she saw him tense, the muscles taut and angry.

"Please don't let pride stand in your way."

She had not meant to bring the Vicomtesse into the room, but perhaps it was important that _she_ was there, her lingering presence acknowledged, no matter how strong the hurt left behind.

"And you suppose I will just trust you?" he asked at last with tired suspicion.

"Not yet. But there are no more secrets. Maybe in time you will believe that."

Julianne determinedly held his gaze, even as her thoughts wandered to the letter she had received that morning. Something like guilt stirred in her stomach but she was quick to dismiss it as undue nervousness. After all, how could the arrangement her father had proposed – an arrangement that required her to marry a suitor of his choosing, an arrangement she could not reject – ever come to affect her relationship with Erik?


	4. Interdit

**A/N: Shorter chapter but it felt better to end it there. I'm now on vacation for a week so won't get much writing done but when I'm back there'll be some time for bonding between the two. ;)**

Chapter 3:

The world was a busy place for a woman attempting to run her own business, Julianne soon learned when she discovered that there was little time left for activities beyond the realm of the _Palais Garnier_ , let alone eating or sleeping. The office at the opera house was brimming over with folders and stacks of sheet music and everywhere she looked, she could spot the little notes she had left herself as reminders of yet unfinished tasks.

It was, perhaps, understandable then why she reacted to a knock on the door with some impatience. It was Renée who entered, wiping her hands dry on the fabric of her faded skirt and Julianne heaved a sigh and set aside the letter she'd been reading. Had it been anyone else, the cause would have likely been far more trivial. But Renée was a senior member of the cleaning staff and would not have interrupted her, was it not absolutely necessary.

"There has been an incident, Madame," she informed her in her own direct way. "One of the younger girls has got herself into a right state."

"And that requires my attention?" Julianne asked brusquely.

"I am afraid so, Madame. She will not be calmed down and refuses to return to work."

"Then perhaps she is no longer fit for the task? Have you reminded her of the terms of the contract?"

"Indeed I have, but she is talking utter gibberish. Perhaps she will start seeing straight again if you give her a good talking to?"

Resigning herself to the inevitable, Julianne pushed away from the desk and rose to follow the cleaner. She was being unduly hard on the girl but she needed to rely on her staff not to be distracted or frightened by Erik's…peculiar sense of humour…as there was no doubt on her mind that he would be to blame for the upset caused.

The frightened cleaner had withdrawn into the furthest corner of one of the balconies which overlooked the _Place de l'Opéra_. Her sobs were so loud that they successfully competed with the noise of the traffic below and even the clear blue sky above did little to brighten the wretched scene.

Gathering what few threads of patience remained, Julianne crouched down before the girl to look her directly into her puffy eyes.

"Renée has told me that something has really unnerved you. What was it, mmh? Why are you out here?"

"The g-ghost, Madame," the poor girl hiccupped, clasping her hand over her mouth as if she'd uttered a curse. "Oh, I know it's just a story, a silly little story to distract gullible girls from their work. But I promise I am not lying. I really saw him!"

"Tell me about it then. Tell me what you saw," Julianne suggested, finding it all of a sudden difficult to dismiss the girl's story when she knew it to be true.

"I was just cleaning the dressing room, Madame," she continued, gulping in air in an attempt to quickly rattle off the facts, "the one at the very back of the East Wing corridor. It was dirtier than all the others, you should have seen the filth! It was completely silent there, I couldn't even hear the other girls…but I kept my head down and swept and polished the furniture. But when I touched the mirror…"

She shuddered and broke off abruptly, her eyes growing wide and frightened once more. And when she continued at last, it was with a voice little louder than a hushed whisper.

"I saw the face. Oh, that dreadful face! It was a corpse, Madame, with gleaming yellow eyes like the devil!"

Tensing, Julianne nonetheless gave the girl's hand a squeeze and beckoned her to continue once she had collected herself.

"Well, I…I shrank back in horror and knocked over my tin of polish. That's when it started to laugh. Its dreadful dead lips parted and it let out a sound so awful it made the hairs on my body stand on end. But even as I ran the terrible laughter followed me down the corridors…it's in my head even now."

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if wishing to fend off this invisible assailant.

"And then it told me never to set foot into that room again."

"You have been very brave for telling me this," Julianne praised her gently with all the calm she could muster. "Now get yourself cleaned up and ask Renée for another task elsewhere. I promise the ghost won't bother you again."

The girl sniffled and nodded, wiping her nose at the sleeves of her already stained dress.

"Oh and one last thing?" Julianne said, turning around at the doors once more. "You will not tell the other girls what you've seen. You will simply tell them you upset yourself over something personal…make something up if you must. But if I hear any more whispers about ghosts, your contract will be terminated."

She turned away then before the wide-eyed look of the girl could get to her and strode down the _salon du soleil_ at so angry a pace that her figure was little more than a flash of black in the mirrors she passed.

It required impossible patience to only call out his name _after_ the door of the dressing room had fallen shut behind her, and when she was met with silence her anger further ignited.

"Erik! I know you are here. Just a few minutes ago you were perfectly content scaring a girl with the face you're usually so careful to guard. So show yourself!"

His laughter was maddening, not because it frightened her but because it told her how amused he was with the game he was playing. He was acting like a child who did not understand the consequences of his actions.

"Have you no regard for the importance of this endeavour? No regard for the time I have invested in this?"

At long last a faint sound emanated from behind the mirror, a whisper that grew and grew until the masked face appeared before her.

"Regard?" he repeated in his silkiest tone which only spoke of further struggles. "Madame Doucet, what a strange creature you are. I have built this opera house, lest you'd forgotten. My fate is intertwined with it."

The yellow eyes were gleaming at her with infuriating playfulness.

"After all, have I not left you volumes of sheet music on your desk? Have you not glanced at them once to notice the careful instructions I have noted for every piece?"

Anger was silencing her voice and causing her to shake in her shoes.

"Was this what it was all about, Erik?" she managed eventually, her voice several notes higher thanks to the excitation. "A silly prank carried out by a petulant child who felt neglected? This is my _life_ , Erik! I must ensure that the bills are paid, that my staff receive their salary and do not desert me. I must read up on every aspect of this endeavour unknown to me and, trust me, there are quite a few. I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication to the creative area of this opera house, but before I can take the luxury of selecting scores for the upcoming season, I must ensure that the opera house has a foundation to stand on. There are instruments that have not been touched in weeks, months even, that require attention. So if you want me to find the time to look at your sheet music, you cannot keep throwing a spanner into the works!"

She closed her mouth, winded from her own passionate speech.

"My threats will only hold up for so long. The last thing I need is a return of the Opera Ghost legend that frightens my staff."

She sighed and exhaled heavily in an attempt to dispel the last tension from her body. If she had hoped for his sympathy, however, she was mistaken.

"Do you truly think me so petty? So desperately bored as to entertain myself in so simple a fashion?"

The honest answer was yes, but she could not muster the energy to say so.

"I have reluctantly tolerated your proposition, Madame. I have not harmed those cleaners of yours that venture into the furthest corner of my sanctuary and pester me with their noise. I have fulfilled my role and supplied you with the creative guidance you asked for. But I will not tolerate anyone setting foot into this dressing room. Whoever dares enter this space will meet with the wrath of the Opera Ghost!"

Alerted by the tone of his voice, she looked up and into the amber eyes once more. The playfulness was gone, exchanged for smouldering anger and beyond that, pain.

Of course, this was the dressing room through which Christine Daaé had been abducted time and time again. The place which to Erik must be filled with memories of tentative hope and the fragile connection with someone who understood what it meant to be lost and alone.

And she could picture it now, vividly. How imposing he must have looked to the young soprano, tall and commanding, an angel sent to guide her. If only he knew how the air around him crackled as if charged with electricity, if only he had an inkling of the tingling anticipation one swift move of his slender fingers could evoke.

Julianne wasn't unmoved by the emotion that was so very present in the room, albeit unspoken, but she was tired, too, of making exceptions for him, of finding explanations that justified his behaviour.

"It's sad, you know, that a man with so many talents and so great an intellect fails to see something as simple as the consequences of his actions."

Her tone was quiet, resigned. There was a hurt in her heart she had no desire to examine more closely.

"Had you swallowed your pride and come to me directly to tell me your reasons, I would have ensured that this dressing room was left untouched. I hope you'll come to see that in time."

She turned her back to him and slowly walked towards the door. All at once she longed to become invisible once more. Plain old Madame Doucet, just another somebody who adorned the arm of a well-to-do man.

"Are there any more places like this, Erik?" she asked when she had already pressed down the door handle.

"Box 5," came the tentative response.

It was as if he was confused by the idea that his wishes were taken into consideration without threats or violence. It was as if he couldn't quite believe that someone was willingly holding him in mind.

Perhaps that's why she felt like weeping and hurried away to the office once more where she'd be forced to focus on anything but her own muddled emotions.


	5. Leitmotif

**A/N: Promised bonding. Will aim for an update in the next two weeks, though I'm going away on holiday again next Friday.**

Chapter 4:

The letters arrived thick and fast, so fast in fact that she regretted her hasty agreement to her father's terms. But when he had suggested to find a potential new suitor who would elevate her back to a more acceptable and secure social standing, she had not anticipated that he would be passing her details on to quite so many men. What would have been flattering to other women felt cheapening to her. Indeed, she was beginning to see herself as a juicy piece of meat dangling tantalisingly in front of greedy mouths just dying to snap her up.

It wasn't a particularly becoming image to carry in one's mind.

Initially, she, therefore, adopted the mature strategy of feigning ignorance. She was much too busy to find the time to read and respond to every individual letter, after all. But this tactic remained short-lived, of course, and it wasn't long before an angry letter from Bristol found its way onto her desk. Her father was not pleased and threatened to break his end of the bargain. Julianne's response was calm and composed and aimed at convincing him that she was still very much excited about the prospect of re-marrying. But she knew that her sweetness could not stave him off indefinitely, and so she wished that some supreme epiphany would come to her.

The reality, unfortunately, was much bleaker. Hours spent pouring over contracts were made longer by thoughts circling around the solution of her problem until at last she gave up one evening and pushed away from the desk with a discouraged grunt.

The sun was finally beginning to set over yet another scorching Parisian day, casting the office in rich orange hues. Pausing by the window, Julianne took a moment to breathe in the still humid air before turning towards the doors and exiting. She could not bear to spend another minute in this enclosed space.

Without a specific direction in mind, she wandered down the large corridors whose marbled walls and floors were shimmering invitingly now. At least somewhere progress had been made,and she would have enjoyed it more had there not been plenty of other things that required attention.

She was just approaching the circular structure that made up the auditorium when the faint notes reached her ears. They weren't coherent enough to constitute music but curious enough to draw her closer, primarily because it had been some time since instruments had sounded at all in the _Palais Garnier_.

Carefully, she pushed open one of the doors that led into the stalls of the auditorium and proceeded forward until she reached the very edge of the orchestra pit. The air was filled with the clinical stench of polish and chlorine and she wondered how long it would take before an audience could be allowed inside. At least the covers had been removed from the comfortable chairs and the lights lit, helping the place come more alive than it had done in a while.

Bending over the edge of the orchestra pit, she was surprised to find Erik's tall, slender frame wrapped around the portly body of a double bass. The white mask was turned upwards towards the light, but his eyes were closed as his fingers alternated between plucking on the thick strings and adjusting the pegs at the instrument's neck.

"Perhaps instead of gawking at me, Madame Doucet, you would like to make yourself useful?"

She had not seen him since their disagreement in the abandoned dressing room and still did not know what to make of her conflicting emotions.

"I recall a comment regarding the sorry state of the neglected instruments, my dear," he continued when she hadn't moved, his eyes now resting on her face with some impatience. "And, as per your request, I have elected to tend to them. However, the double bass requires full attention as even you can undoubtedly see, so I'd be most obliged if you could find your way down here and assist me."

Opening her mouth to point out that she had no experience in tuning instruments, she thought better of it and hurried to join him below in the orchestra pit. The light in the small space was much dimmer than up in the auditorium and she was surprised by the feeling of comfort it elicited in her.

"What would you have me do then, Monsieur?" she asked in what she hoped to be an acceptably playful tone. "You seem quite capable of carrying the weight of the bass."

"Naturally," came the smooth answer, "but it is dreadfully difficult hitting the key on the piano at the same time. My hearing is excellent, but it would be foolish to rely on it alone when a better result can be achieved otherwise."

Understanding dawned on her and she picked up her skirts to shuffle into the corner of the space where the piano had been positioned. The floor was an obstacle course of instrument parts and hastily folded up note stands and she was relieved to reach the other end without tripping and embarrassing or even injuring herself. How Erik had carved out the space for himself and the double bass was beyond her.

The lid of the piano had been lifted already and since there was no speck of dust, she surmised that he had seen to it before, perhaps in order to test whether its condition was good enough to help tune other instruments.

"Which note?" Julianne asked, looking back at him from her seat on the bench.

Childhood piano lessons aside, music had never quite been her milieu, but she hoped to recognise the basic keys still.

"A."

He sounded distracted and was hardly looking at her, though this clearly wasn't out of malice but a genuine focus on the task. It wasn't the first time that she had observed the peace that seemed to overcome him when he was engaged with something that interested him greatly.

Glancing down at the black and white keys before her, Julianne counted as calmly as she could until she reached the note which she hoped to be an A. And when his head remained serenely bowed and his fingers sought to pluck on the strings once more, she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't know why, but somehow she felt she had passed a test.

For a while they remained like this, quietly engaged in the task until Erik set aside the last instrument and crossed the room to join her at the piano.

"Can you play?" he asked, pointing at it and the warm curiosity in his voice took her aback.

He truly appeared much more grounded than he had done previously and she found herself wishing that she could help him maintain this level of peace, as it had to be tiring for him also to be torn between polar moods all the time.

"Very little. As a matter of fact, I doubt that there is even one piece that I remember."

"It mustn't have gripped you then," he remarked almost pensively, divesting himself of his suit jacket.

She followed the fluid movement of the garment with her eyes as it swept down his long arms and somehow ended up neatly followed on top of the piano. There was a sheen of perspiration on the part of his chest that was revealed to her and she wondered, distractedly, if his skin would be warm to the touch or as cold as his hands usually were.

"I'm not certain that's why, Erik," she spoke, mostly to avoid engaging in more dangerous thoughts. "Perhaps I'm not someone as easily moved by music as you are. Books on the other hand…" She trailed off, chuckling nervously when he didn't seem responsive to her humour. "Erik?"

He was beginning to make her nervous with his elongated silence and his intense eyes.

"Sit," he instructed at last.

She hadn't even noticed that she had risen to her feet.

"And don't lie to me. We both know what happened that night when I played the violin."

The memories returned to her in a sudden flash, painful and glorious all at once. It had been the first time that she had not merely enjoyed music as one would do for entertainment purposes, but because she had felt a deeper connection. How she could possibly convey that to Erik, however, she did not know.

"I did not mean to lie," she instead said with a sigh, "truly, it did not even cross my mind. I was thinking back to operas and concerts I attended with Édouard. They were nice, enjoyable even but nothing like…that evening you…" She lowered her gaze to her lap and gripped on tighter to the bench she was sitting on. "I think, perhaps, it was different because there was a mutual pain. What you played wasn't just music and whatever it was that you created touched something within me. Perhaps I've just never been touched before…perhaps I've not been in a state of such vulnerability that I was prepared to meet someone in an equally vulnerable state."

She willed herself to stop talking before more of her feelings could come spurting out. All of a sudden she was exposed again, raw and vulnerable under his gaze and terrified of what he might find.

"Books to me are an escape. But music, music like the kind you produced that night…it's inescapable, it tethers me to reality with all its implications."

He nodded slowly at last and sank with quiet grace down onto the bench by her side. His fingers seemed to inch by their own accord to the ivory keys that embraced them like a long lost lover. She watched on mesmerised as the contact was finally made, creating the first warm note that wrapped itself around her with a kind of familiar comfort she had not anticipated.

In order not to succumb to another wave of grief, she busied herself focusing on his fingers that moved with confidence and effortless agility. The piece he had chosen to play was devoid of the erratic anger she had come to associate with his own compositions. Instead it was calm and filled with the melancholy that formed the cornerstone of their relationship.

Her eyes drifted shut by themselves and the tranquillity of the moment was only marred by her struggle against a momentum that seemed determined to propel her against him. Her head was heavy with pleasant drowsiness and his shoulder was bound to make a comfortable resting place.

But the voice of propriety that had been hammered home to her in her stiff English upbringing forbade her to cross such boundaries. Such acts of tenderness were reserved for a serious, acceptable suitor only and she wasn't certain that Erik would ever be deemed as such.

Curiosity compelled her to open her eyes at last and it was with some satisfaction that she took in his appearance. The tension that usually possessed his body and created the illusion of majestic strength was altogether absent now, and although he was looking straight ahead at the piano, she knew that his thoughts were truly elsewhere.

Julianne could not say why she admired him, not when he was frightening, ruthless and explosive. But when there were moments such as these where hope filled her breast, how could she not?

Upon her return to the opera house she had thought to have given him the chance at something that had not been offered to him before. But perhaps the truth of the matter was that he had reciprocated in a similar fashion. After all, he had been the only one who hadn't stood in her way because she was a woman. He'd only proven to be a nuisance in several other ways, she added dryly to herself, noticing a moment later that the piece had come to an end. Erik's fingertips were still clinging to the keys and there was something in his eyes that daren't make her interrupt the moment just yet.

"I am glad, Julianne," he spoke at long last, turning towards her with warmly smouldering eyes, "that you were truthful in this instance."

She must have blinked or frowned in response – too occupied was her mind still with that rich voice that had carried her name – for he wasted no time to explain.

"That night when I played the violin and you responded so instinctively, it touched something in me. It made me realise that I had not met someone in this manner." He paused, seemed to need a moment to find just the right words. "Christine was my muse. She was music personified."

Julianne found herself holding her breath, aware of the frailty of the moment. No other topic sparked his ire as rapidly as this.

"And within music we found each other because we both needed it, craved it. Perhaps it was our language…perhaps my voice transformed me into the man I could never hope to be. I can't say with certainty…not when my memories intertwine with the cold facts and everything gets drawn into question." He sighed, and it was a sad and lonely sound. "But we met that night because my anguish touched yours and you responded without the crutches of song or melody." She did not know when the tears had appeared in her eyes but they were there now, clinging to her lashes, clouding her vision. "And I am grateful that this part did not turn out to be a lie. It is a truth between us and cannot be taken from me again."

His hand was as cold as she remembered when she slipped her own into it. She could have reminded him again of his own part in her deceit, but what she'd heard wasn't an accusation but the humble confession of an otherwise proud man.

"Thank you for playing for me," she said instead, "thank you for tuning the instruments. It won't be long before we can move ahead." _It won't be long before you can feel useful again._

He nodded in quiet acceptance and then rose elegantly to his feet, helping her up as well.

"I must return home now but I will see you?"

"Soon enough," he answered swiftly, a wry smile playing on the lips that were just visible under the mask.

"No doubt," she chuckled and walked towards the end of the orchestra pit where his voice arrested her once more.

"Chopin's Nocturne, op. 9 No. 2."

Julianne nodded and took one last look at him before hurrying away. Her thoughts were fluttering aimlessly in her head and her body continued to be possessed by a lingering warmth whose implications were entirely too unnerving. Pre-occupied as she was, she barely managed to assemble all of her belongings before she fled into the dark Parisian night and towards the waiting carriage.

She would later blame it on this state that she did not notice the stranger who seemingly manifested out of thin air and with whose body she collided painfully a moment later.

"Oh, pardon me Monsieur. I wasn't paying attention."

He had bent down to collect her belongings and straightened himself a moment later, exposing a handsome face and bright, intelligent eyes.

"The fault is all mine. I was in a hurry," he paused and chuckled, ruffling his own hair, "I was in a hurry to meet _you_ , actually. Madame Doucet, I believe?"

Taken aback, she nodded. "And you are?"

"Jean Trudeau, a pleasure. The pictures don't do you justice."

Casting a longing glance towards the waiting carriage, she was beginning to feel a little impatient as well as confused.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Then you must not have read my letter yet. Your father told me I could find you at the _Palais Garnier_ , but when I got here I realised how many doors there were and well…"

He chuckled again while she found herself flushing in embarrassment.

"I was just returning home after a long day, Monsieur. Forgive me, I don't wish to offend you."

These oft-rehearsed words tasted stale on her tongue.

"Oh, of course," he hurried to assure her, lifting his hands in a gesture of peace. "I have come at an inopportune moment. Perhaps you would permit me to call upon you at a more convenient time?"

What was she to say with her head filled with thoughts of another man and her hand still tingling from his touch?

"Of course, Monsieur Trudeau. It would be my pleasure."


	6. Hiatus

Hiatus Note

I'm really sorry to those of you who have been enjoying this sequel to Coda, but I've decided to put it on indefinite hiatus. I have found it really hard writing stories for the Phantom community because there has been so little feedback. I really wanted to write this sequel for LeticiaMaree who gave Coda so much support and so I feel horrible abandoning it now, but I just feel really, really disheartened. Writing for a ship that isn't popular will always be an uphill battle in any fandom but there's only so many times you can tell yourself that that's the reason for the lack of feedback - of any kind - before you start doubting your own abilities. And Da Capo has definitely suffered because of that. I entered Da Capo with the mindset of "I'm just doing this for one person and hopefully that'll be enough to keep me going", but it wasn't and so I ended up rushing chapters to get them out of the way so I could write on the stuff for a community that does support me more. So these chapters ended up alright and okay which is not the level I aim for usually. I have the plot set up for this story and I am hoping that at some point I'll continue this, because I like Julianne and Erik a lot. But right now I can't do it...I feel too critical of myself and what I've written and too disappointed in a lot of things. I hope you'll understand.


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